Mein Geliebte
by 26Bentley
Summary: In the heart of the forest there is warmth and darkness. Based off an RP, which in turn was based off of Goethe's poem 'Der Erlkönig'. Don't ask, lol. Which is why the category may not fit, I had trouble placing this. Slash, age difference, BDSM. Heh.


CRACK.

The walls ring with the sound. The air has been cut with millimetre precision and is busily rearranging itself.

He pulls in a sharp breath as red-hot pain streaks across his spine, arching away from it and crying out.

The pain fades quickly, however, and leaves in its place a delicious tingle. It goes straight to his groin.

Raising his head, shaking his hair out of his eyes, he speaks.

"Do it again, please."

The red lips elongate gracefully into a smile.

"With pleasure." He chuckles softly. "Such a shame I haven't got one of the lovely nine-tailed beauties."

The purr of the voice, only slightly roughened by passion, grates on his nerves like a file. Electric shocks reverberate through him, make him shiver.

"The cat-o'-nine tails…" he tries to imagine the sensation. Nine metal pieces embedded in too-pale skin.

"Won't that hurt awfully, Sir?"

The Master smiles.

"Well, I don't think we'll use that one today."

It has the ring of a dismissal, and he immediately feels a sinking in his gut. Has he somehow displeased? Should he not have exhibited fear?

Timidly, he dares to look at his Sir and question,

"Will there not be any play tonight?"

Bending down slightly, the tall man lets one finger trail along his jaw line. He revels in the sensation.

"I think you're a little young for the cat-o'-nine tails," whispers the Master, his voice like the wind in the trees, "but that doesn't mean there won't be any play."

The clear eyes are insidiously hot, and his own eyes flutter shut, until the lids are half-mast.

"Then what, Sir, would you want of me this time?" As if to make clear that he lives in servitude willingly, he lifts his hands to the linen-clad chest, and starts slowly undoing gilded buttons. His hands are trembling.

The Master places one gentle finger to the boy's soft lips.

"This time, I think I'll let you decide." His lips twist into a sensual smirk. "That would be fun, wouldn't it?"

One of the Sir's hands is stroking his neck, and he finds it so hard to focus on the world. Almost involuntarily, his head falls back, and he feels his cheeks flush, but he knows he must make an answer.

"I only want you, Sir. Your hands on me. To know that I belong."

It must have been the right thing to say. It earns him a raised eyebrow.

"Oh?" the Master questions. "I appreciate that."

He feels a warm sensation spread through his limbs. Now surely he'll have undivided attention for at least a while.

But no. A loud scrape upon what passes for a door breaks into the moment, and the boy bites back a curse. Patience. It's what he fails at, the only thing in which he is not perfect. He wants to be perfect. He lives for it.

As his lover leaves the room, he lies back on the bed in the corner and closes off his mind to the world. Nothing in it is of interest until His return.

While he waits, he imagines His face. His hands, all over his body, underneath his clothes. Covetous and warm. One of his own slender boyish hands glides down to idly stroke himself, to keep the high. He wants to be the way he was before they were interrupted. He should be. Another unwritten rule, something he learnt fast enough. Living in the house of the Lord of the Misty Morn, you learn things. He doesn't know how long he's been here. He's taller now then he was. He doesn't have to lean back so much to see the master's beautiful face and the slight wrinkles at the muddy-water eyes.

The moments tick by. The hourglass on the shelf tells him it's been only a short while, but it feels like hours when at last the door opens again, and the familiar silhouette returns.

He rises immediately, walking quickly, but not running. They meet in the middle of the room.

"There." His lord smiles warmly. "Where were we?"

How to answer that. He finally settles upon,

"I believe you were going to make me feel appreciated, Sir."

The reward is consent. "I believe so."

Strong hands grip his own – which have once again found their way to the taller man's collar bone – and remove them from that resting place, while a wet mouth touches his neck. Heat spreads from the spot it touched, almost annoyingly pleasurable. More and yet more, he must have more, and he tilts his chin up to allow better access.

Emboldened by debauchery, he remembers something.

"If I _am_ allowed to dictate," he asks, hesitantly. "Would you bite, Sir?"

Hands slide up under his linen shirt, the touches meant to torture.

"Tell me why you want me to," comes the sly answer.

Oh, damn. The boy shies away from the hands to try and concentrate.

"Because… it feels good. I mean, I think... it would feel good. My Sir, please, I'm not coherent," he pleads.

His liege is watching him with a growing smile. "But of course. I will," he promises. "When I want to. Yes?"

Resignation like a fist to his petit frame. But there is nothing to do. Eyes closed, he murmurs "Yes."

However, he cannot help himself for long, and like a child, he puts his arms around the King's neck and looks up at him with eyes like a doe.

With his lover pressed against him like a waterfront harlot, there is little any man can do but give in. He cups his hand around the boy's small chin, and kisses his lips. They part obediently, and a hot, wet cavern welcomes him home. It lasts longer than it should. Not even his iron control can keep in such circumstances.

Finally he pulls his mouth away.

"Patience, love." He knows he's a hypocrite, when all he wants is to take the little wretch to bed.

The boy arches against his Master, not really because he wants to, it just happens.

"I cannot be patient, Sir," he breathes. "Not faced with desire such as this."

Immediately, he is left lover-less.

"You must learn to have patience."

A stern gaze makes it all the more serious. They aren't common.

Standing all alone, even though the object of his frenzied desire is less than a foot away, is torture.

"Oh, please, sir," he begs. "I promise, I swear, I shan't do it again…" He has to tense all his muscles to prevent himself from running to the Master. Closing his eyes is a small, necessary mercy. He stands alone, spine straight as a broom.

"Good. Because if not, I shall have to use the whip."

The word makes his eyes snap open again, just in time to see the little smile that lingers on the sinful lips.

"But not this time."

With those words, the wait is over, he finds himself being pulled roughly against his beautiful Lord, and deft hands take hold of his shirt and pull it off of his shoulders.

The moment his skin makes contact with the air, he's chilled to the bone. Shivering in the sudden cold he wraps his arms around himself.

"Will you warm me, beloved Master?"

Stepping in, the Elven Liege removes the boy's arms from their clenched position. He takes hold of both his wrists with one hand. The other softly strokes a rosy cheek, as he bends down to let his own lips brush against those of the boy.

The child shivers even harder, and even his lips start trembling, but he kisses back with goosebumps covering his body. Not once does he move to free his wrists.

"Relax, darling," croons the Lord. "You're so tense." His hand releases the slender wrists. "You must learn to use your hands for what they're good for."

"Then you must teach me. And I shall enjoy learning." Round lips quirk upwards.

Hands slide up behind his back, and the master lowers his head to gently kiss his lover's neck. The boy can feel the soft tickle of silky hair against his throat, and the movement of lips sets his nerves on fire. The sigh that escapes his lips is shaky.

"Oh, yes," he's murmuring, "Yes, love you…"

There is a haze in his mind, and he's as warm now as one with the fever, all traces of cold vanished in a heartbeat. His hand finds its way to the jaw of his lover, and he only barely dares, but his fingertips brush along the smooth jawline with all the love he possesses.

A soft chuckle against his vein answers him, before his Master bites him. Good God in the Heavens, don't look at me now. The shock goes straight south, and he can't help the shudders that rack him head to toe, nor the gasp he lets out.

"I wasn't sure if… you remembered," he pants.

There's a small sigh. "I must say, you underestimate me." Due punishment comes on time. A hot lick on the tender skin, a graze of teeth over the deep red flower quickly blooming on his throat, and he can only clench his teeth against the pleasure.

"Ngh," he moans, "Sweet God in Heaven and all the Angels, what manner of magic…" he trails off again. "It's like fire…"

"You are so inexperienced." Hands are slowly stroking his bare chest.

"Yes sir, I am. But that is why this is such a treasure to me."

"That is what makes me like you," murmurs his Sir against his skin. "You appreciate things in a different way." The man lets his talented tongue trail to a nipple, and the boy clenches his hands to keep from gripping his master with them.

"A different way, Sir?"

One more swirl of tongue, and he's moaning.

"Oh God help me, I need you."

Elegantly disdainful cluck of tongue. "He cannot help you, and you know that, beloved."

Talented, oh so talented, the mouth that sucks at his nipple, teasing him, and the hot hands running up and down his sides conveying a clear message of possession, and he's already so aroused…

The young one whimpers softly.

"I don't want help. I want nothing but you. You are my only-" he gasps as teeth graze his nipple, "-god! I only worship you, after all…"

The Master's eyes are burning like sunsets. "Say it again," he whispers hotly, before pushing his young paramour backwards.

With clinging hands fastened in the Master's clothing, he holds tight to him. "You are my God," he repeats, breathing quickly. "You are everything. Sun and moon to me. And I worship you, and I love you to death."

"And you are mine." Cupping the back of the youngling's head with both his hands to kiss him hard enough to bruise, he then pushes him down on the couch.

The battle of tongues that ensues is a dance of electricity. Both hard as rocks with arousal, they press lightly against each other, the boy with his arms around his lover, kissing him back with burning passion. Finally, they break for air.

"Please, make me yours."

The older man strokes his cheek. "So beautiful, and so young. Almost too young..."

Oh no, never that. The gaze he turns upwards into his bedmate's lust-darkened eyes is wild with fearful hope.

"Please, Sir. I want only to be able to call myself yours. I'm not an innocent."

To illustrate his point, he lifts his hips against his lover's.

A raise of eyebrows, not quite composed.

"I am fully aware of that."

The Forest personified leans in beside the boy's ear, and whispers, "You undress me, beloved."

"Gladly." He dutifully loosens the shirt buttons and slides the beautiful fabric over the broad, sculpted shoulders of the solid form that his Lord prefers. Always one for indulgence when the chance appears, he allows his hands to stroke the skin of the shoulders and chest, and then roam lower, barely brushing the nipples and towards the stomach, all the while sucking at a collarbone…

An impatient outlet of air rushes past his temple, ruffling some strands of hair. He glances up, and meets his Lord's gaze as the Elf's hands snake around his waist.

The hands pull the white linen trousers down. Blue eyes darken even more, until they're the shade of foggy night sky and forest waters, as he looks at the flushed, naked body before him.

"So beautiful. Just like an angel."

This only proves how far removed the Soul of Forest is from Heaven. There is nothing angelic about the boy as he looks up through his lashes, licking at already wet, swollen lips. The hot gaze falls on the older man's waist, where fine embroidered trousers are still tightly laced, confining, hiding the one thing the boy wants to see more of.

"Would you care to lose those too?" he smiles, as he puts his hands at the waistband.

One pale young hand finds its way to the front of the dark green silk trousers, and strokes languidly, much the same way he pleased himself earlier. Oh, wonderful, the hardness under his hand, the warm urgency.

"You loosen them." It's hardly spoken, so much as panted.

The boy undoes the lacings slowly, using plenty of dainty wrist and fingertip movements to make the act of untying the knot as sensual as possible, and peels the pants down over slim hips and along pale, veined thighs in a way that would have shamed many a strumpet in his hometown. The fact that his father would have killed himself, or his son for that matter, rather than see him like this, does not concern him. He is alive and healthy and grateful to his liege, and he cannot recall his father, and therefore he smiles almost innocently at his royal lover's arousal as it is made evident.

It's this mortality he enjoys, the tangible sides of his Master.

He barely has time to enjoy it, however. Strong hands seize his shoulders as the grown man pushes the young boy down on his back. The couch is somewhat hard, and the hands of his lover are even harder, one is holding his hip down and the other has grabbed his chin, making him look into blue-grey eyes. The owner of the eyes, the soul behind them, is a furnace of want. A few moments of tenderness, and then he pushes into the boy, not caring to loosen up first, still maintaining his vice-like grip on his chin.

"Look at me."

It's harder than it sounds. His eyes tear up at the pain, it feels as if something is about to burst and rip inside him. So big, way too big to possibly get used to, and he bites his lower lip until he draws blood, because he refuses to cry out. He can't cry, and he shouldn't weep. Spine curved with agony, he tries looking away, but the grip on his jaw is too hard. In the end he discovers that the pain seems to diminish somewhat if he closes his eyes entirely and concentrates on sunny meadows and a protective embrace, though he doesn't know whence the images come.

A voice breaks into his reverie, softer than usual, lilting and gentle.

"Relax," it croons, "and look at me. I want you to look straight into my eyes when we do this." The king of the forest leans down to kiss the boy's soft and trembling lips.

Impossible not to whimper, as the leaning motion forces them tighter together, but obedient servants kiss back. Then, at long last, he opens his eyes, jaw set.

"Do you love me, Sir?" he questions. The ultimate question, he must know if this is love. "Please tell me."

Letting his tongue trail to the pale neck, the King answers,

"Yes," and then bites lightly, not using his sharpest teeth, only meant to soothe.

"Ignore the pain." He makes his words as loving as he can. "You are too tense."

The boy arches up, the bite taking some of his tenseness away, and making him unconsciously trust his lover a little more. He manages to loosen up a little, at least, making the fit better.

"I love you," he gasps, "though you hurt me now. Bite me again, please?"

The biting has made him a miserable addict, from the first time he felt the sharp canines graze tender skin, but he can't even remember that anymore. Neediness doesn't seem like such an offence in this embrace.

"Like this?" teases the King, brushing his teeth over the delicate skin just once, causing a shiver from the boy beneath him. He then bites his neck again, just that tiny tad harder than last time.

"And I know you love me."

As a safety precaution he puts both his hands on boyish hips, to prevent the youngling from bucking up.

"Oh god yes," the mortal moans shamelessly. "Just like that. But please, move. I want more. I promise to relax as much as I can."

"Then open your eyes. I want to see your eyes."

It doesn't happen. Well, we can't have that now, can we. He suddenly pulls almost entirely out, and then rocks – hard – back. The friction and the clenching heat make him exhale sharply, loud in the quiet room.

A cry pierces the dusty chamber air as young eyes fly open, a small hand grabs at his lover's arm, not even noticing that he's using his nails until it makes the immortal hiss in pain.

"Grab my shoulders."

The sweet whore beneath him obeys absently.

He's breathing hard, the pain is so delicious, and to know that it is this frail little waif that caused it! It's all becoming too much, even for a creature made almost entirely of will and magic. Placing one hand on each side of his lover, he pounds into the boy so hard that their hips smack together.

At this first thrust, a small whimper escapes the child, and one tear slips down his cheek.

"Is it meant to hurt so?" he pleads.

"It does hurt." He's curt, but he wants the other to enjoy it at least somewhat. He presses down, so that the boy's erection is trapped between them, hoping that the small amount of friction will at least distract a little.

"Relax and feel the good parts."

An unmistakable order, but he does try to push in more gently this time, and is rewarded by a shaky exhale and the gorgeous sight of his stolen sweetheart's face flushing with blood, eyelids lowering to half-mast.

"Oh yes," he breathes. "That IS better..."

This time he actually arches his spine in pleasure as well as pain as he's entered, and he spreads his legs wider apart.

The lord of the house breathes faster as he increases the pace.

"Call me master," he hisses, snake-like for a moment, "Say you love me."

A particularly pleasurable clench makes him suck in air.

"Tell me I am the only one. Let me hear it."

For a moment, the boy is incapable of saying anything at all, the sudden onslaught of violence making him gasp.

"I do love you, my master," he finally manages. "I'm truly yours now, aren't I? I want to belong – ngh, faster! – to you only…"

So lovely, and he's begging to up the pace. Well then, sweet lover, your wish is my command. He experiments slightly with the angle of the thrusts, a matter of millimetres, and also obeys the order to go faster. At once the boy jerks as if shot.

"Ah!" he bites his lower lip again, in pleasure this time. "You hit something… so good…"

The sight is almost the king's undoing.

"You are mine." Clench. He gasps. "Only mine." Both long hands fasten in the boy's hair. "You belong to nobody but me." He changes his mind, reaches out for his lover's erection, stroking it for every thrust.

"Oh sweet Heaven!"

So incredible, the boy as he throws his head back, arching wildly off the couch, no hands to hold him down.

"Yes, love," he's rambling, "I'm yours, more of that, both… and come, inside of me... please."

Well, obviously. The mere thought of _not _coming inside that sweet, hot…

"I couldn't - " _oh,_ another clench - "have thought of anything el – _ah_!"

A thunderbolt, a wave of pleasure, so intense it's like pain no matter how many times he feels it. He throws himself forwards, nobody here too see him lose control like this, and sinks his teeth into the boy's neck to stop a loud cry. Not until he feels the blood on his lips does he realise that he broke the skin, and understandably, the boy cries out in pain,

"Aahh, ow!"

But he's always loved being bitten, and the hand of his master now resumes its stroking, and "Oh, God, oh, love, I'll – ngkh."

His whole body goes taut like a bowstring as he comes, the electricity racking through him until he sees starbursts, and then he slumps like a corpse. Still dazed, he slowly lifts one shaking hand to stroke his master's silken hair.

The king presses a kiss to the hand. His arms wrap tightly around his boy lover, who is still shivering with aftershocks. The embrace doesn't let him move a muscle.

"Mmm."

There is silence for a while. The pair lies huddled on the couch; it's warm and comforting. The boy lies back, offering up more neck for licking. He then puts his hands on his lover's sides, stroking slowly with his thumbs. It's for comfort. They're both too spent to do anything else.

"Love you always," he mumbles sleepily.

"Yes," his lover agrees. After he finishes licking up the blood he spilt, he lays his head beside his lover's. He wraps his legs around those of the boy, wanting touch and warmth all the way, the hedonist that he is. His hand with its long nails strokes the boy's face softly.

Hot, small hands slide up his sides to wrap fully around his waist.

The slight boy snuggles closer to his ancient companion.

Fog and mist, dusk and dawn in his old eyes. Life and death in one touch of his hand.

"I could stay like this forever."


End file.
